Carnival of Rust
by Guardian Kysra
Summary: My response to a challenge. Just a wee bit of Hugue/Agnes fluff.


Challenge Fic #5

Pairing: Sister Agnes/Father Hugue

Fandom: Trinity Blood

Song: Carnival of Rust, Poets of the Fall

Chosen by: Kysra

Theme/specifications: Agnes impressions

 **Carnival of Rust**

 **A Trinity Blood Fanfiction**

 **By Kysra**

Agnes does not choose to become a nun but is given to the Ilian convent as an oblate – a symbol of good faith between the church and her clan; and though she is unfailingly obedient and hard-working, she does not begin to accept her position as something she personally wants until her thirteenth year.

When she takes her vows, the clan head is absent and she says a prayer for him and his wife and their missing children – the two having been cut down by vampires some years before. She never suspects one day she will meet her "missing" cousin one day and how.

No, she lives her days in the quiet safety of the convent and church going about her chores and prayers with conviction and heart, treasuring the teachings of Father and Mother Superior and taking care of her only material possession – at once a vanity and a weapon – the blessed golden cross Father had gifted her with upon her vow-taking.

Until one day the quiet and safety she had foolishly thought existed is shredded apart by the very same creatures that took a portion of her family . . . this time the carnage occurs before her very eyes and when the devil have done feasting, Father is dead, she is bathed in blood, and there is no one in the world to help her.

In the days following the good Father's murder, Agnes is the sole nun to remain. Mother Superior – in a panic and rightfully so – deems the location too dangerous for such tender lambs and evacuates the prior and the convent; but Agnes decides to keep the church doors open. She has seen the most horrible of creatures, felt the evil sin of their existence with her own skin and survived with her faith in tact. She will not allow Father's work to die with him. Darkness can only exist with the absence of light, and if it must be her lone lantern to illuminate the Word of God for this community, then so be it.

She is shocked and intrigued (and somewhat suspicious, scared) when she enters the church one day to begin her chores and finds the form of a man – shirtless, brutally scarred, and perfectly balanced on _one hand_ \- performing a fairly spectacular hand-stand upon the altar.

He introduces himself as Hugue but seems unwilling to give anymore identifying information than that. Through careful observation only does she deduce that he is there at the behest of someone else; and though she fears – at first – that he is there to kidnap or kill her, she begins to understand – again by observation alone – that he is there to _protect her_.

He wakes when she does (though how he knows when she rises is a mystery to her), follows her about on errands and during chores, prays with her (always taking the pew nearest the door), and takes his meals with her. He doesn't talk much, and she gives up on making conversation after the first day; however, she finds that she is able to relax knowing he is there, ever watchful and ready (though she cannot know if he is strong or skilled enough to defend against a human bent on harm let alone a vampire set to kill).

It is on the day they are kidnapped that he – for the first time – speaks to her. She is lighting four candles – her daily ritual before prayer and he asks why she does so. When she explains they are for the deceased leaders of her clan and their missing children, she is amazed to see something in his deadpan expression change. It is subtle but there and before she can ask if what she said was somehow offensive, they are attacked and taken away.

When she wakes, it is in an opulent bedroom draped in blood red velvets and silks with the Count de Verf – a notorious vampire, one whom she had planned to testify against in the good Father's murder trial – seated nearby at a little marble table, a silver tea service sitting before him.

In those brief moments when she sees him and he snidely introduces himself, pours her a cup of tea she has no inclination to drink, she prays that – if she is raped that she be granted the mercy of death and if she is to be drained that death be quick.

But he only threatens and taunts then has her dragged from the room to "bear witness". Somewhere below, in a dungeon-like cell, she is left alone in chains for what seems like hours, rats and darkness slithering against her skin and draining her of tears.

She is only fifteen years old, she thinks, only fifteen with no knowledge of life; and she has never felt so alone. So she prays until blood springs from her eyes and forces herself to hope for absolution in the midst of seeming hopelessness and still has the strength and conviction to believe that Hugue is there somewhere biding his time.

She's not sure why she is so sure that he is still alive, but she cannot imagine such a strong, controlled man would fall prey so easily without some plan to escape.

It is this thought that gives her the strength to remain calm when they come to fetch her for whatever horrendous ceremony she is to bear witness to. It is this thought that grants her the conviction to hold her head up high and allow the chain to be fastened about her neck like a leash.

And in those moments, when she is led along the dark catacombs, with the whisper of vampires singing of how she will die stabbing her ears, she thinks of Jesus and his cross and refuses to stumble under the weight of hers. She will weather this with the grace and dignity she has been taught to bear . . .

. . . so that she may look Death in the eye without flinching and greet God without shame.

When she arrives at the arena, she barely notices the Count taking hold of the chain attached to her neck, she is so horrified at the sight of Hugue, alone and small in the middle of the ring (shirtless again and seeming calm and focused as ever . . . though with a menacing sort of tension lacing his shoulders). There is blood shining – still wet – twisting among the strands of his pale hair and there are new slashes that will scar against his skin.

She draws breath to scream to him to run but a choking pull on the chain stops her before she can form a word or sound. These creatures are the very picture and definition of cruel, she thinks, as the Count explains the nature of the "games."

When the werewolf is let loose inside the ring, she begins to cry, silent and pitiful, as she watches the ensuing fight; and though Hugue is undoubtedly strong and possessing of formidable skill, he has no weapon save the chains connecting his wrists and that won't help him in the long run.

It is some time, a small eternity really, before she spots the stick Hugue carried with him always at the church, and she finds it strange that the Count should keep it so close and protected. It is only a stick after all . . . but maybe . . .

She takes a closer look, finds the barely-there demarcation line a few inches from one end that brings the startling revelation that the 'stick' is actually a _sword_ ; and though she knows –can see the outcome before her body even moves – she glances at the Count, finds him transfixed by the 'fight' and lunches for Hugue's weapon, flings it in the general direction of the arena.

Her memory after that one move is fraught with pain and fear and the fierce war cry of a seasoned warrior out for blood. She doesn't wake up for three days.

He doesn't say goodbye or allow her to thank him; but he does leave her the cross she had seen hanging about his neck – one similar to the one given her by the good Father upon her vow taking only slightly longer, thinner and chipped in places – to replace the one the Count had cut off when he had slit her throat.

Two townswomen are there to tend her as she recuperates and heals, but she finds that they do not provide the peace his presence gave. It is strange to think that she could become so attached in little more than a month, particularly since she has always been a social girl and they barely spoke to one another. But she _has_ become attached and _needs_ to at least know he is all right.

In short order, she writes to the Vatican, having had it confirmed by the townswomen that Hugue is a priest and an AX Agent at that, asking that her thanks be forwarded to the blond swordsman who had guarded and defended her so well.

It is weeks before she receives an answer.

She is walking from the market before afternoon prayer when she notes light flickering through the window of the baptistery. Setting down her goods, she enters quietly . . . cautiously and gasps when she finds the form of a man – tall and broad and blond – praying before four glowing candles.


End file.
